Staying Flexible

One of the pains-in-the-butt about nearing 60 years old is the stiffness.  If I sit at my desk or on the sofa too long, my legs don’t want to unfold, let alone walk. My hand cramps up from using the mouse. When we’re on a car trip and stop for a break, I am startled to see a reflection in the convenience store window, limping.  Who is that poor old thing?  Uh oh.

I try to fight it.  I do stretches in the morning, go to the gym 3-4 days a week (even though I hate it) and I’ve been playing games with the Wii, which are actually fun until some body part or other starts to hurt.  It is hard to know, on any given day, whether it will be best to rest the offended party, or push through and exercise it.

It isn’t just physical.  At church this morning, the other lay leader and I had just worked out who was going to do which reading when we realized that it was the 3^rd Sunday of the month and thus Youth Sunday.  The Youth pastor was scrambling to line up Youths to do the readings.  He finally found almost enough, with one young man reportedly on his way who could do the second reading.  Would I be on stand-by to read it, if the young man didn’t show?  Sure, I said, but mentally I was noting to never sign up to be a lay leader on 3^rd Sundays, because the disorganization was so annoying.

Happily, I caught myself in mid-thought.  Even in my head it sounded grouchy and Old Fartish.  So I spent a good part of the service pondering the need to exercise my mental (and judgmental) flexibility, to keep it limber too.

This afternoon, Ray told me he’d heard from his friend Ben Mwangachu that the college in Rwanda that Ben supports is in need of someone to teach management this summer.  Somewhat to my own surprise, and before Ray had actually formulated a question, I found myself saying YES, let’s do it. 

There are a lot of questions to answer before we can make a commitment:  How much is airfare to Rwanda?  Is it really so much safer there than it was?  What do we know about what Rwandan students need to know about management?  Would we really do any good?  And, summer on the Equator – for me, who can hardly stand summer on the Potomac? 

But.  It needs doing.  And we have knowledge and experience that could be valuable, but only if we share it.  And it would be one hell of a place to celebrate a 60^th birthday.  And – I think this is what life should be about:  sharing and daring and giving and trying.  This would be a good way to “walk the talk.”

We may or may not end up going.  But I’m glad to know I said “Yes” to the idea – a mark of some flexibility, after all.

Type C

I am not a good person.

I had to face this Saturday night, when we were watching the movie “Knowing” in which the central characters learn that the world is quite literally about to burn up.  Of course, I began to think, “What would I do if there were only a few hours left?”

My first thought was “Where is the ice cream?”  Second thought was, “No, wait, BACON first, then ice cream.”  There was a brief mental scuffle as I weighed the risk of spending my last hours with severe indigestion, but I decided to go for it.

Later my thoughts drifted into self-critical mode.  Surely, if I were a good enough person, I would have thought to comfort frightened neighbors, or imagined going to church & kneeling in prayer?

And then I thought:  Oh, lighten up.  But this does bring me to pondering the question of The Cancer-Prone Personality.

According to the Psychology Lexicon, the cancer-prone personality “refers to a behaviour pattern marked by cooperativeness, unassertiveness, patience, suppression of negative emotions, and acceptance of external authority, supposedly associated with an increased likelihood of cancer.”  It was termed the Type C personality, and considered in the same category as the Type A personality (aggressive and prone to rage) link to heart disease.

The theory of the Type C Personality has been debunked, re-asserted and re-disproven in cycles over the years, but it was pretty hot when I was dealing with – and trying to understand – the disease.  I must say, though, I was a poster child for the Type Cs.  Early in my childhood, I had adopted the role of the Good Child – trying very hard to stay out of trouble by being obedient, following The Rules, and keeping my opinions to myself. My big brother got in trouble a lot when we were growing up, and I remember swearing to myself that I would do ANYTHING to keep from getting yelled at the way he was. 

(Phil, if you’re reading this, please feel free to chime in – does this fit with your recollections?  Or have I developed a false mythology about myself here?)

Anyway, I spent a lot of time and energy trying to figure out what it took to be a Good Person, and trying to live in that pattern.  One of the books I read about the Type C Personality posited that it was people who tried to follow what they perceived to be “The Rules” – and then found out that The Rules did not lead to a satisfying life – were the ones who got cancer.  And there I was, trying to be a Good Person, and boy, was it ever not satisfying.

I have a lot of thoughts and questions about all this:  Isn’t it possible that emotional suppression and depression can be linked to suppression of the immune system – and thus increase susceptibility to the growth of cancer, without being the blame-the-victim cause of cancer? Is the stereotypical “Good Christian” – cooperative, unassertive, patient, obedient – a literally unhealthy model? Is that stereotype true -- is that what being a Christian means?

But don’t want to write a whole book today.  So I’ll stop.  For now.

The Baby Thing

I have such a vivid memory of this.  I was 15, and had a regular babysitting job for a family down the street:  two little boys and a baby girl.  One night the girl was sick, miserable and whiny.  She couldn’t sleep, so I held her and walked her.  She wasn’t tiny any more, probably close to two years old and getting heavy.  She smelled of spit-up; she was sticky with sweat; she squirmed and fussed.  I walked and patted.  Slowly the squirming stopped.  She went limp against my shoulder, and started a raspy snore.

Something electric went through my body.  THIS!  I WANT THIS!  It was a revelation.  I kept walking her, even though she was totally conked out.  I couldn’t get over how wonderful it felt to be holding this stinky, sweaty, sour little creature and to have brought her comfort. 

Ten years later, when the doctors told me a large growth was devouring one of my ovaries, I walked to the bus stop in the rain and literally shook my umbrella, in a rage, at God. I was less upset that it might be cancer than I was that it might mean I’d never have my own babies.  “How can you do this to me!?!”  I ranted.  (My theology was juvenile but my rage was genuine).  “How can you give me such a longing to be a Mom, and then take away my chance to do it?!?!”

It wasn’t cancer that time, “only” endometriosis, and it was another 13 years before I had to give up the other ovary and all hope with it.  (More on that another time.)

But now, 45 years later, I am Gramma Sue to 9 little ones!  I have known most of them since they were born; I’ve been able to watch their personalities emerge and it is every bit as captivating as I’d dreamed.  I’ve heard them yell “Gramma Sue!” and run to me for a hug.  I am known for my cookies.  I’ve also been thrown up on, bashed in the eye by a careless elbow, screamed at and ignored.  It is all precious.

Backstory

So, here is some background:  In my 20s, I thought I knew myself, what I wanted, and how to get it.  Most of all, I wanted to be a Mom in a big family.  More on the whys of that later; for now, just take my word for it.  I married a man who had one child already, a little girl, whom I loved from the moment I set eyes on her and who took to calling me “Mom” very quickly.  What a blessing – but I wanted more.  I yearned to be pregnant, to know a child from before s/he was born. I read parenting magazines the way some people read scholarly journals.  I took my temperature every morning, trying to catch an elusive window of fertility.  I even found a job as a newsletter writer/editor, so I’d have the job flexibility to be home with a new baby.

And then, the year I was 29, it all fell apart.  The newsletter publisher went bankrupt (the way we found out about it: our paychecks bounced).  The latest fertility treatments failed. A hollow awareness dawned that my husband and I shared little in the way of values or interests. And then I discovered that I had cancer. 

So, in the space of a year I saw my work life, my married life, my future-dream-of-motherhood life, and my physical life all *poof* -- up in the air.  No certainty anywhere.

The Lectionary Reading for last Sunday included lovely words of consolation and promise from the prophet Jeremiah:  “Their life shall become like a watered garden.”  I would not have believed that could be true for me, but it has happened. 

And apparently I’m not alone.  This article about people who have rebounded after personal disaster was on MSNBC.com this morning:  http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/40538918/ns/health-womens_health/ 

I love to read stories like this, but I also know there are no guarantees.  Too many good people have been destroyed by the terrible circumstances of their lives.  What makes one person “grow” after a disaster (or string of disasters) and another crumble?  I’m glad to see there is research into this question.

Getting Started

2011.

In August, I will be 60 years old -- and I will also celebrate the 30th anniversary of my treatment and surgery for cancer.  So, from this year forward, I will have lived more than half my life as an official "survivor."  It seems like an occasion calling for reflection and, certainly, appreciation.  It has been quite a ride.

I've titled this blog "Notes from the Oasis" because this stage of my life is so sweet and lush and green.  After so many years in an emotional and physiological desert, it is stunning to find myself here.  I'm also pretty certain that this won't last.  Life is cyclical, after all, and I know there must be hardships and heartache ahead.  I want to store up in myself all the appreciation and nourishment I can, to sustain myself through whatever lies ahead.

Why a blog instead of a diary?  Well, I've been through some pretty amazing things -- surviving not just cancer but a whole lot of other stuff -- and maybe, by casting these thoughts outward, they might reach somebody who needs some hope.

I'm here to tell you, don't give up.  Thirty years ago I lost just about everything that defined my life and my vision for my own future.  And now, here I am, with everything I ever wanted, and more than I could have imagined.

So, as this jubilee year unfolds, I'll tell the story of the past, and savor the present, and ponder the future.  You (whoever you are) are welcome to join me, ask questions, share your own reflections on these thoughts, or ignore me and go on about your other business.

For now:  Happy New Year!  ... and God bless us, every one.